


in smoother walks to stray

by omphale23



Series: ode to duty [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consent Play, M/M, Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-06
Updated: 2010-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-11 13:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/pseuds/omphale23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock taps the riding crop in his hand. It's highly distracting, for reasons that John avoids considering at the moment. "Oh, do keep your terms in order. I've not asked you to tie me up. Just hit me a few times. I can hold still on my own; it can't possibly be that painful."</p><p>"Right. As long as we've got that clear. No."</p><p>"So I'll just take my shirt off and we'll—" Sherlock blinks. "What do you mean, no?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	in smoother walks to stray

There are days when John isn't even sure why he tries to reason with Sherlock. Days—whole weeks, even—when he barely manages to even keep up, let alone contribute anything useful to their conversations.

And then there are the days like this, when—no matter how he tries, no matter how carefully he thinks—John is utterly convinced that Sherlock is going out of his way to fuck with John's head.

John clears his throat. "Sorry, come again?"

"You heard me. I need you to hit me. With this." Sherlock has that look in his eyes, like he's the only one in the room who could possibly comprehend his own genius and wouldn't things be simpler if everyone would only follow along blindly.

John's not sure how it differs from his ordinary look of _why must the world be so tediously stupid and banal_ but it does. The usual look is just annoyance; this one frequently ends in explosions.

It's a bit terrifying, to tell the truth. Still, John does his best. "I'm really not following. This has exactly what to do with your current case? Which, last I heard, involved old ladies being cheated of their life savings, and not any sort of bondage."

Sherlock taps the riding crop in his hand. It's highly distracting for reasons that John avoids considering at the moment. "Oh, do keep your terms in order. I've not asked you to tie me up. Just hit me a few times. I can hold still on my own; it can't possibly be that painful."

"Right. As long as we've got that clear. No."

"So I'll just take my shirt off and we'll—" Sherlock blinks. "What do you mean, no?"

John rather enjoys Sherlock's startled twitch. That probably makes him a bad person. "I mean, no. I'm not interested in hitting you with anything." Sherlock narrows his eyes, suspicious. "Well, not at the moment. Keep putting noxious chemicals in the toaster, and you might persuade me to change my mind."

Sherlock is still recalibrating as John turns and leaves the room. He can feel the arguments forming in the air, and John sighs a little. It's going to be a very long night.

He goes upstairs to his room, sure that he hasn't heard the end of Sherlock's latest plan.

He's just gotten his trousers off when the doorknob rattles. Sherlock's voice comes through the keyhole. "Honestly, it's not as if I'm going to molest you in your sleep. There's no need for such drastic measures." John waits, as Sherlock's footsteps recede and then return. Sherlock settles himself on the hall floor. "It's for science, John. Don't you believe in science?"

John would be fine with the molesting, actually, if he thought it had more to do with him and less to do with Lestrade declaring the morgue off-limits this month. Not that he's going to point any of this out to Sherlock, who has moved on to picking the lock with a hairpin. "Grannies with pensions, Sherlock. Not whips and chains and no, I don't care that I'm being irrational." He slips a chair under the door handle, just as Sherlock manages to push the last tumbler into place.

Sherlock's voice is all wounded dignity. "It's not as if I ask all that much. What's a bit of horsewhipping between friends? I promise to still respect you in the morning."

"That would require that you respect me now, wouldn't it?" Sherlock shoves at the door, skidding the chair forward an inch. John sits down on the chair, holding the door in place as Sherlock wiggles his hand in the gap. "It'd serve you right if I leaned back and broke your fingers, you idiot. Go away, I said I wouldn't and I won't."

The hand slides down to run over his arm before it returns to the proper side of the door, but John doesn't move. Sure enough, a few moments later he feels something brushing against his ankle. Sherlock has pushed the end of the riding crop beneath the door and is wiggling it back and forth. In what could—in someone else's life, under slightly less ridiculous circumstances—be considered a seductive manner.

John thinks that he's supposed to be tempted by the sight, but he's having a bit of trouble holding back a giggle. He steps down firmly on the leather, and is rewarded by Sherlock's muttered cursing.

He can't help it; it's been a very long week and the whole situation is insane. He doesn't mean to lose his composure, but before long he's leaning forward, hands on his knees, gasping with laughter. It's only because he's got his eyes shut tight that John misses Sherlock's entrance—through the window, presumably—and finally looks up to see him lounging next to the bed.

John does not fall off the chair in surprise, but it's a near thing.

Sherlock, of course, looks unruffled and remarkably unwinded for a man who has just shimmied three stories up a drainpipe. His suit's not even wrinkled; if anything, the slight warmth to his cheeks makes him look even better.

John, on the other hand, is wearing his ordinary Tuesday pants, a pair of argyle socks, and has his ink-stained shirt-sleeves unbuttoned. His cuffs smell of rubbing alcohol and iodine. The universe hates him.

Sherlock sits on the end of John's bed, and—once he's got John's attention—uncurls backward to lean on his elbows. He's staring at John in what is a decidedly speculative manner. John shifts in the chair. He tries sitting up straight, but he's in his _pants_ and that's going to make things even more uncomfortable.

Sherlock continues to watch John, eyes bright and calculating down the length of his own body.

Finally, John leans forward, elbows on his thighs, and wraps his hands over the back of his skull. He sighs, and stares at the floor as he listens to Sherlock shifting on the bed. "You're really not going to let this go, are you."

He's not startled to feel Sherlock's fingers sliding through his hair, or to feel the tug of Sherlock pulling his head up. They look at each other a few moments, and Sherlock speaks first. "If you really don't want to, all you have to say is—"

John shakes his head, blinks at the pull as Sherlock holds his hand still. "It's not that I don't—I'm not going to—could you at least tell me why? It's not our usual," John can't believe this has become his life, he really can't, "not our usual way of doing things."

Sherlock tilts his head, before nodding. He leans back again. "It isn't. But I don't like working without necessary evidence, and I don't—" he's curiously hesitant, and John puts that aside to think on later. "I don't like acting without knowing the consequences. I need to know what it does. How it is for you."

John shrugs. "It's not like you'll be able to understand, just because I smack you a few times around the shoulders. It's not physical, not really." It's the closest he's ever come to explaining why he wants—why they can't—why. John's not convinced that Sherlock ever listens, and he doesn't expect much. Still, he hasn't tapped out yet. Sherlock's given him the chance, and John's still here.

"Of course it isn't, I'm not stupid." Sherlock sighs and stands up, moving to the window. John waits for it, and when Sherlock mutters, "Gladstone," he's ready for the shiver of the scene ending. Sherlock comes back across the room, drops to his heels in front of John.

It's just them, now. No roles to play. John refuses to be disappointed.

Sherlock slides closer, leans his forehead against John's. "I know we don't—we don't talk about these things. But it leaves _marks_ and there are days when you flinch in the morning. I may not understand but you have to give me a place to work from, John. You can't simply expect me to act without thinking about the results."

He supposes it was bound to end eventually. "We can stop, if you'd like. If it's too much to ask, we could go back to how—" he doesn't know how to finish the sentence.

Sherlock is already shaking his head, clearly frustrated with John, with himself, with the whole mess. "Shut up, it's not that. Don't think it's—I'm not saying no, I'm just asking for a bit more information. If it bothers you so much, I can find someone else to show me."

His hand reaches out and fists in the front of Sherlock's shirt. John doesn't think he meant to do that. "No—you can't—you shouldn't—" damn it, why won't his brain just _work_ for once "—don't. If you really need to know, I can—we can—I'll try."

Sherlock leans up, kisses John hard on the mouth. "Right, then. Once more, from the top." He jumps to his feet, dragging John up as well. "Or, perhaps not. I think somewhere in the middle is more appropriate."

"Fine. Take off your shirt. And trousers. And for the love of all things holy, wipe that grin off your face." Sherlock looks suitably chastened, for about half a second. Then he smirks and starts unbuttoning his cuffs. John rolls his eyes. "You do have a flair for the dramatic, don't you?"

Sherlock straightens his spine, dropping his shirt to the floor and starting on his trouser buttons. John deliberately avoids tipping his head back to meet Sherlock's eyes. He watches Sherlock's hands, quick and neat and sliding down his hips, slipping out of clothes until he stands in front of John, stripped bare.

He's still grinning, and John smiles back, quickly, before reaching out to run his fingertips down Sherlock's chest. Sherlock huffs out a laugh, pleased at getting his own way. John is not amused. "You really are insufferable, you know that?"

"You love it. You wouldn't let me get away with it, otherwise."

John looks away, takes a deep breath, clenches and unclenches his fists a few times. Then, his hands steady, he leans down to pick up the riding crop. "I suppose not. I think this is a bad idea, mind." Sherlock turns, reaches his arms up and wraps his hands around the top of the bedpost. John closes his eyes, and pulls his arm back to swing. He opens them, finds Sherlock loose-limbed and waiting.

"Your objections are noted." The first strike is a shock to them both. It echoes in the room, and John steps back, nervous at the hiss of breath Sherlock lets out. The clock ticks, and Sherlock bows his back, resettles his hips and shoulders before looking back at John. "I didn't tell you to stop."

"How many do you—" John chokes a little on the question, "when do you want me to quit?"

"You'll know when." John moves closer, barely enough room to build up momentum, but the second strike is smoother, slashing down over Sherlock's ribcage. The welt forms immediately, and John strikes again, and again, building the stripes over each other, crosshatching them, drawing shadows in a sketchbook.

Sherlock doesn't speak. He simply stands there, quiet and waiting, his muscles relaxed in a way that John only rarely manages. It's a trust that he can't wrap his mind around, even knowing that Sherlock could stop him, could reach back and grab the weapon, could turn the whole thing over and dump out John's hard-won acceptance on the floor like marbles from a bag.

It may be the calmest John has ever seen Sherlock, and he doesn't know what to do with that. Sherlock is thinking, considering, and John can almost see the gears turning, the way that Sherlock allows the violence to run over his skin, flow like water down through muscles and bones and into the places where he keeps John's secrets locked tight. He steps back again, gets a rhythm of it, finally feels his own head start to clear.

His arm begins to ache, shoulder protesting the overuse and just as John's about to ask, to pause, he hears Sherlock's whispered, "Stop. Enough."

The crop clatters to the floor, and John's wrapped around Sherlock before he has time to talk himself out of it. Sherlock shudders under the touch, and John's already mouthing at the skin, licking over the angry red marks and whispering promises, apologies, "You made me do this, you complete wanker, I can't believe you thought this would end well, damn you, don't you dare, just say something, tell me—"

Sherlock inhales, one quick deep breath, and then he's turning and John staggers back, collapses into the chair again, and Sherlock is looming over him, hair hanging sweat-damp in his eyes. He's managed to pick up the riding crop and John doesn't bite his lip at the sight of it in Sherlock's hand, doesn't wrap his hands over the edge of the seat as Sherlock drags the end up John's chest and over his collarbones to his throat.

He wants to, but it's Sherlock's game, always has been, and John waits. Sherlock finally opens his mouth, licks his bottom lip.

John watches, as Sherlock twists his shoulders and stretches, arms reaching for the ceiling, riding crop balanced between his hands. "Right. I think that was an entirely successful experiment." Sherlock smiles, and it's not his usual grudging smirk, not the open blinding grin that accompanies a fresh case. It's smooth, and predatory, and satisfied, and John is in quite a bit of trouble.

He smiles back. This is always the best part.

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to [caersmane](http://caersmane.livejournal.com/) for the britpicking and at the request of [likeaglass](http://likeaglass.livejournal.com/), who is an evil, evil enabler. And to whom I still owe the actual porn that this fic was intended to be. The title is from Wordsworth, and is entirely serendipitous.
> 
> Comments are treasured and can be left either here or over on [this LJ post](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/399313.html?mode=reply).


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